Always Half Empty
by Gosangoku
Summary: England's history is painful too, but he will never speak of it. — US/UK.


_Beloved sweetheart bastard. Not a day since then  
I haven't wished him dead. Prayed for it  
so hard I've dark green pebbles for eyes,  
ropes on the back of my hands I could strangle with.  
Spinster. I stink and remember. Whole days  
in bed cawing Nooooo at the wall; the dress  
yellowing, trembling if I open the wardrobe;  
the slewed mirror, full-length, her, myself, who did this  
to me? Puce curses that are sounds not words.  
Some nights better, the lost body over me,  
my fluent tongue in its mouth in its ear  
then down till I suddenly bite awake. Love's  
hate behind a white veil; a red balloon bursting  
in my face. Bang. I stabbed at a wedding-cake.  
Give me a male corpse for a long slow honeymoon.  
Don't think it's only the heart that b-b-b-breaks.  
_- Carol Ann Duffy.__

**O-o-O-o-O**

i. _600s-900s._

An early time for me. I was still practically a child. After the abandonment of the Roman city, Anglo-Saxons pretty much conquered me. Londinium, my heart was then called. Viking attacks dominated the duration of the 800s, so often that they became increasingly common. It was vague, due partially to my foggy memory and much to trauma, I can't recall how long I was ruled by those Vikings, but I do remember how Alfred the Great defeated them at the Battle of Ethandum.

Yes, I did name America after my King. One of my earliest memories, and one of my earliest inspirations. Heroes.

_RIP, King Alfred._

**O-o-O-o-O  
**_  
_**ii. **_1066._

I was still young at the time, and yet I still sported a few good scars from previous battles I'd been involved in. However, this took it all to a new level. I like to think of it as the time I finally grew up psychologically. Despite the maturity I'd gained afterwards, it was a traumatic time and I know I can never forget it no matter how long I live. When I was still young, and still incredibly naive despite having participated in battles prior to the incident. This was also the ignition that sparked my righteous hatred for France. It was very soon after that bloody Norman conquest, and I was still in a highly weakened and vulnerable state, limping home in my oversized and bloodied armour, my eyes half-mast due to the pain and rage and self-pity that overwhelmed me. How did I lose to that utter _bastard_? I was sure that I could win... As I said, I was naive.

_Cringing and grimacing with every reluctant step I took, my laboured breathing resounding too loudly in my ears, my foggy eyes scanning the area (paranoia), I staggered back to my small home. My shaking, bloodied hand reached for the door, but it was opened before I could even twist the knob. I stumbled forwards, righting myself before I fell against that... _him_._

To add to my childish but warranted defiance, I raised my now-clear and piercing emerald gaze to his smug but unimpressed blue eyes. He sighed in frustration and babbled some French that, I was disturbed to find, I was beginning to understand. Pretending to be ignorant, I spat, "Repeat it in one of my languages, frog. I don't understand your slimey shit for language." As soon as I'd said it, I received a sharp slap. The force knocked my head sideways, my dirty blond locks falling in my face to cover my eyes and blood-stained forehead. Slowly, I turned my head to glare back up at him darkly, eyes flickering briefly to the knife grasped tightly in his hand.

"Mon petite Angleterre," he drawled, a small, irritated but still so damn smug smirk tugging at his chapped lips as he grabbed my chin and dug his blunt nails into my skin. My eyes flickered to the knife again, and back to his annoying face. "You 'ave lost_," he hissed, and the reminder stung even more than the wounds I was carrying. "You belong to me," he whispered, his soft voice not reassurring or alluring but simply maddening and creepy. I could feel his icy breath ghost down my neck and I had to try hard not to shudder at the snake-like feeling. "Your..." He trailed off with a patronising chuckle. "Non, zey are mine now, aren't they? _My_ monarchy, aristocracy, clerical hierarchy..."_

"No!" I'd shouted indignantly, struggling in his grasp, and he frowned, blatantly displeased. I should not have felt that small shimmer of pride I had at that time. My actions had done nothing to prevent the catastrophic series of events that had occurred between France and I, the ones I care not to remember and the ones that I still feel the pain from but dare not speak of it, because I'd sound weak. "They may speak French because of you," I'd spat furiously, fists clenching tightly before my fingers freed themselves and inched towards the knife he was holding. "But that doesn't mean they are_ - Ack!" I bit my lip hard as I felt the harsh tip of the cold blade press against my hand, digging in slightly._

"Jeune fou," the fucker berated me, nails digging deeper into my cheek as he pressed the sharp knife further into my flesh. I twitched and sucked in a breath but did not show any other indication that I was in pain. Obviously, he did not approve. "Did you not zink I would see your wretched little hand creeping towards my weapon? Do not be so naive!" he reprimanded with a hand slash of the blade against my cheek. My eyes snapped open, wide, as I felt blood seep down my face, dripping down my neck and staining my tunic beneath the metal armour. I swallowed, pursing my lips against the pain, before licking them and forcing myself to look at him.

"Actually," I breathed with a rebellious smirk, "I thought you'd be either too stupid or too self-absorbed to notice. Seeing as you're wallowing in self-satisfaction after roughing a kid up a bit..." I trailed off with a shrug, my smirk twitching upwards when his cheeks warmed in anger, and he punched_ me this time. I staggered backwards and fell against a wall, glad for some support holding me up as I let the pounding sensation in my head ebb, and the ripples of pain shocking my body disperse. Evidently not feeling merciful, France had already strode towards me again and held the blade up between my eyes. I keep mine fixed determinedly on his, hoping that the obvious revulsion and hatred I felt for him could be seen through my eyes._

"Do not insult your rulers, mon petite Angleterre_," he whispered threateningly, emphasising the last three words as he wrapped his hand tightly around my thin arm. I twitched angrily, licking my chapped and bloodied lips, the words, _"I'm not small, and I'm definitely not yours,"_ lingering on his lips but we not spoken. Both heard the unspoken words nonetheless and France raised the knife, my arm still being held awkwardly to prevent me from moving without breaking it. "We must all make bothersome choices in our lives, Angleterre," he mumbled, eyes sombre but powerful and somehow satisfied. I scowled in response, but it did not dampen his mood. "And I'll start you off. Lose your sight, or temporarily lose the use of your arm?" He chuckled when my eyes widened in horror, my vulnerability actually showing through for the first time since this war started, and he seemed to revel in it. He spared me little time and soon brought the knife down quickly, and I speedily attempted to retract my arm from his grasp, but only succeeded in twisting it in a very awkward position. I heard a sharp _crack!_ and my vision turned black for a moment before I came back and found myself rolling on the floor and bumping my head along the way._

When I regained myself, I found myself lying beneath him. I opened my mouth to speak, but instead found myself choking on a rusty, salty-tasting substance. I coughed to clear my throat, and blood splattered across my chin and his bangs, the golden-blond mixing with crimson-red, just like the sunset I'd witnessed on the battlefield. France was a sheer mockery of the natural beauty; he tainted it.

He whacked his hand across my face again, and my vision remained blur for longer this time. I almost didn't notice that he was still holding the knife. "You 'ave 'ad your little moment," he muttered harshly, eyes now icy instead of condescending. "Now, we shall become one." He leant down and grabbed my short, unruly hair, lifting my head off of the ground, and he whispered right into my ear, "You are mine, mon petite Angleterre. You shall never be free." He let go of my hair, and my head thumped back against the stone floor painfully. I hissed, turning my head and inwardly whimpering when I felt the warm liquid on the floor by my head. I hardly even noticed the metal armour being removed, but I noticed the absence of my trousers and underwear when I feel the cold rush of air, and I shivered uncontrollably in response. I stared up at Francis, my eyes half-lidded, a clash between rebellion and pleading. His brows drew together and he paused for a moment, but then his eyes darkened and he plunged straight in. My back arched and I opened my mouth, but I made no noise. It was a silent scream. Even as I felt warm blood trickling down my thighs, the back of my head, my cheek, and the pain reverberting throughout my body, I did not scream. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

That night, I fell unconscious surrounded by my own blood, failure, and... numbness.

**O-o-O-o-O**

iii. _1455-1485._

Why were my beautiful roses fighting against each other?

A series of wars between York and Lancaster to rule over me... Admittedly, during that time, I had experienced disturbing bouts of schizophrenia enduced by two exceedingly diverse houses battling for my rule. Due to me alternating between personalities and subsequently my _minds_, I do not remember much aside from feeling as if I were being torn in two, and the nightmares of my precious roses being defiled and destroyed.

Why were they fighting?_**  
**_**  
O-o-O-o-O**

_Weary men, what reap ye? Golden corn for the stranger.  
What sow ye? Human corpses that wait for the avenger.  
Fainting forms, Hunger—stricken, what see you in the offing  
Stately ships to bear our food away, amid the stranger's scoffing.  
There's a proud array of soldiers—what do they round your door?  
They guard our master's granaries from the thin hands of the poor.  
Pale mothers, wherefore weeping? 'Would to God that we were dead—  
Our children swoon before us, and we cannot give them bread.  
Speranza._****

O-o-O-o-O

iv. _1665._

At that time, I could feel it. I could feel every one of those people dying from the sickness. I felt death, and it made me even more sick regardless of the plague. It was worse than the great famine prior to this. He even suffered from the revolting symptoms that his people had experienced and, despite everything, he was just partially glad that he could feel his people's pain. He only wished he could tell them all hope was not lost, but he was too ill and too weary to speak.

_Those disgusting buboes took over my neck, oozing pus and even bleeding profusely at some points. My forty-one degree (celsius) temperature made me feel even worse, the heat overwhelming me at times to the point I could hardly breathe or scarcely move, although, despite my aching joints, I often had to lean over the side of my sweat-drenched bed to spill up my stomach acids and sometimes even blood as my throat was raw and scratched. I hadn't eaten for a long while, so no actual vomit was ever produced, and the acids that came up only served to burn my throat further. In my fever-induced mind, I imagined I would also die within eight days, just like my people. However, being a country, I lived through it for a long, drawn-out period with the general feeling of revulsion, sickness and malaise until it eventually died down, and my purpura-induced purple skin faded back to my previous pale palor, although this time I was even more pale. My nausea did not diminish, however, when I discovered just how many of my people had died._****

O-o-O-o-O

v. _1666._

It's impossible to forget the unbearable burning sensations and agonising pain during the Great Fire. I remember lying awake, writhing (which only made it worse), screaming, begging for it to stop as more and more burns appeared on my already heated flesh. The fever was unbearable, and I had hardly any water to diminish my dehydration or my pain. Most attempts to destroy the terrible fire that wracked my country were failures. People faught valiantly to put it out, but to no avail. It had hurt so much.

_Hoarse shouts, screams and yells echoed throughout my otherwise crackling, burning home. I was completely out of it. I was unable to fall asleep, always moving to try to lessen the pressure on my blistering burns. Even if I ever did fall asleep, pain and fever-induced nightmares awoke me. When I was awake, I spent most of my time screaming and shouting, _begging_ for the pain to cease._

But no one was there to hear my cries.

I remember how alone I was, sobbing dryly (no tears), and tossing and turning and screaming_ and _bleeding_. The conflagation was utterly horrendous. Sleepless nights; insomnia; the only way I could fall asleep was enough pain to knock me out. But I always woke up screaming. Despite my loyalty to my country, I could not help but feel selfishly wishing that they had accepted Charles the First's offering of Royal Troops. I often reprimanded myself for that though, for that was my own selfish wish to be rid of the blistering and bloody burns._

**O-o-O-o-O**

vi. _1756-1763._

It started off poorly. France, surprisingly, could overpower me then, and Austria, the traitor, changed sides. He left me, stranded, on the battlefield to join the other side when suddenly, someone unexpected joined the war.

_Why did all of these people keep leaving me? I didn't understand it. Everything I did seemed to result in catastrophy. When Austria informed me he'd be joining the other side, I disguised my feeling of horrified betrayal behind a veil of furious antagonism. On the battlefield, alone and admittedly quite scared, I held my gun in shaking hands, and jerked violently when I felt a hand on my trembling shoulder._

"Wow, England," a voice said, shockingly concerned but also still sounding smug. "You're messed up. Here," he muttered, and thrust a container in my hand. "Take a swig of that to calm your nerves and prepare you for our alliance in this war." Here the albino smirked at me, and I just stared back, emerald eyes wide, hopeful, but not full of trust at all. His smirk dissolved into a deep frown. "England, I'm gonna help you with this one. Just accept it, and hand me a goddamn gun."

And I did. And he helped, as he said. It wasn't easy, not at all. We fought against a growing number of enemy powers led by France _of all people. However, much to my pleasure, after a period of political instability, I gained a firmer leadership and I finally managed to achieve my aims of the war... with Prussia's help, of course._

Soon after, however, I engaged in conflict with Spain, and briefly captured two of his capitals, and then attempted to protect Portugal - my oldest and strongest alliance and friendship - from Spain's attempted invasion.

Much to my own disgust, my country was forced to accept France's "peace terms" due to my miniscule amount of finance I'd currently had. I could see the patronisation and smugness in his infuriating blue eyes, the ones that always reminded me of that time. I truly hate him.

**O-o-O-o-O**

_Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;  
My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.  
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,  
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.  
Oh, could I lose all father now! For why  
Will man lament the state he should envy?  
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,  
And if no other misery, yet age!  
Rest in soft peace, and asked, say,  
Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.  
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such  
As what he loves may never like too much.  
_- Benjamin Jonson.****

O-o-O-o-O

vii_**.**__1773-1776._

This time... It speaks for itself. This was... This was what tore me apart most of all. I remember, even before the Boston Tea Party, America... Towards me, he was acting out of conduct and always did things to show how serious he was about rebelling. If... Maybe if I'd taken him seriously... No, I should know nothing I could have done would have prevented it, but... I can't help but think all of it, everything, and every hardship he's gone through... is because of me. What I did. It's stupid, I know. And I shouldn't have gotten so close to him, but... I couldn't help myself. During the Boston Tea Party, my sanity was already in shambles. I hid it well. I remember I was just... At that time, I was out of my mind. When I was home alone, I sat in silence and stared at walls for hours on end. He had only visited once during that time from what I can remember, to deliver his declaration. I threw my teapot at him, and I remember his shocked and hurt face as a miniscule cut bled on his cheek. One piece of the china had cut him. It was nothing, but both of us were horrified. At the tea party, the air was thick with tension. He was furious, and I suppose I was too. At least, I kept the image of anger. Inside, I could feel myself breaking apart. As I watched him dispose of inordinate amounts of tea, I remember just watching passively, emotionlessly, eyes half-lidded and distant, and his words falling on only almost-deaf ears when he said, "I am no longer your brother, England. I do not belong to you. I am independent. England... I don't need you."

That night, I remember sitting in scalding hot water in my basin until it turned cold. My body was red, and it reminded me of 1066 again. Covered in red. I always had blood on my hands.

_That fateful day in 1776. The day I actually voluntarily lost. Voluntarily? I'm not entirely sure. Yes, I dropped the musket and gave up. But it wasn't that I just didn't, it was that I... I literally could_ not_ pull that trigger. Holding that gun to my little Alfred - no, he wasn't _mine_ anymore, was he? No... Holding that gun to... to that man's face... It made me want to shoot _myself_. He was my little brother, and no matter what he said or how much he hated me, I could never stop seeing him as such. I'd never tell him, because he'd either use it against me or just resent me even more for it. Point is... I'm weak. I just _could not_ hurt him... not him. So, I dropped the gun._

"Of course I can't shoot you... You idiot..." I had found myself whispering at that point as I slumped to the floor, sitting in the mud at my knees before my... this new country. This new country that was no longer my colony - no longer my little brother.

Thank my benevolent God that the rain disguised my tears.

"England..." he whispered, and it chilled me to know that his voice was so much deeper now. How had I not noticed my little America becoming so... well, such a man? I... "You used to be so big..." And I had, hadn't I? I... I could have won_ this war! I could have _shot him_! But, yet, despite having the ability to do so, I... couldn't. I'm not fit to represent my beautiful country._

It would never be the same.

When I'd arrived back home, I sat in my dying garden, amidst the decayed roses that symbolise my country. I sat there, in my torn and bloodied uniform, letting the flood of rain wash over me, staring at my poor mangled roses.

I had failed my country once again.

**O-o-O-o-O**

viii. _1812._

Me being petty? Admittedly, that's the most probable answer for that war with America. He can never know how guilty I feel about this war. Never. I... separated America from Canada in some respect, and... I-I tore apart two _brothers_, basically. I'm... I do not wish to comment any further on this topic.****

O-o-O-o-O

ix. _1851._

Perhaps I was bragging. Perhaps the Crystal Palace Exhibition was a bit much in regards to showing off. It was definitely a stupid thing to do, as it didn't serve its purpose. I bragged about my culture and such, but _secretly_... I'd done it for America's attention.

Evidently, it didn't go well. Just another bullet point on my list of things I am ashamed of.__

**O-o-O-o-O**

x. _1940-1941._

London, Hull, Belfast, Birmingham, Manchester, Brighton. Those were only some of the places that had suffered the terrible bombings in the second World War. My people were in pain once again, and I could still do nothing to stop it. London, my heart, was bombed for fifty seven nights. It felt like a lifetime, and the pain of my citizens echoed throughout the ages even longer.

It was even worse than the first World War.

_My efforts were thus far futile. Stationed with the troops in those cramped, dark, cold trenches, wrapped in dirty gauze that blood seeped through endlessly. Corpses were everywhere across the field, across the cities, everywhere. Again. I remember the horrified screams and the ground shuddering every night, and I can definitely remember the distinct horrifying injuries that sent me into fits whenever I was granted the pleasure of being unconscious._

Before even that, my Royal Airforce had been trageted. It hurt to watch all of those admirable men in those prestigious aircrafts be shot down so brutally. I should know. I was one of them. I recall the loss of control; my gearstick refused to cooperate as I was sent plunging towards the ground. I can't remember much after that, I believe I'd hit my head and got a concussion. I still had some bandages wrapped around my head. Disgraceful, really. We only shot down one Heinkel. I was ashamed.

The Saint Katharine dock was set up in smoke, along with most of London and a good portion of my other cities. Limping, staggering, dragging myself down my streets, my heart had wrenched at the sight of burnt, lonely and obviously now homeless children sitting outside the wreckage that was once their home.

And the fire.

High-explosive bombs were scattered all around London, and a firestorm erupted. Once again, I'd experienced another set of burns, cluts, blisters and scars from the Second Great Fire of London. The bomb shelters weren't all that satisfactory either. People used the underground stations to hide from the raides. It was humiliating, terrifying, and disgusting.

Reluctant on both parts, Spain had actually partially helped in some respect. My defenses were heavily influenced by one Catalan engineer, although that was not Spain himself. Just one of his... better citizens. But maybe that's my dislike of Spain shining through and speaking for me.

Then... Then, I was shocked. Then, although he did not necessarily protect me or rescue me, America... America showed sympathy for me. He seemed to realise that I was just in so much pain I could hardly speak, and yet I still fought. When I staggered back to my post on the trenches, he had almost gently (trying to be gentle, but his insurmountable strength making it difficult) grabbed my arm and spun me back around. His eyes glistened and he stared down at me, a mixture of emotions crossing his unusually serious face, and then he pulled me into a tight - but not tight enough to hurt - hug, and whispered, "You're the bravest man I know," and the words, 'I'm sorry_,' lingered in the air between us._

When I felt my eyes begin to burn, I pried him off of me, and stumbled back to my post. No matter what, I would not cry in front of him again.  
  
**O-o-O-o-O**

_1945._

This is not a war nor any particular negative aspect of my history, and as such shall not be referred to in this numerical system. 1945. That year... That year, Churchill said, "Neither the sure prevention of war, nor the continuous rise of world organisation will be gained without what I have called the fraternal association of the English-speaking people... A special relationship between the British Commonwealth and Empire and the United States. Fraternal association requires not only the growing friendship and mutual understanding between our two vast but kindred systems of society, but the continuance of the intimate relationship between our military advisers, leading to common study of potential dangers, the similarity of weapons and manuals of instructions, and to the interchange of officers and cadets at technical colleges..." and so on. That... It was obviously exceedingly embarrassing, but thankfully America himself was also too flustered to tease me about it. That time meant a lot to me, as not only did our bosses refer to us as countries, as tools of war, but as people... and as friends. I remember smiling that day.****

O-o-O-o-O

xi. _1952._

That blasted severe air pollution combined with the so-called "anticyclone" was, to say the least, a major aggravation. I suppose I was at fault; with my country's mass utilisation of coal, smog encompassed the city and affected many peoples health. Despite how badly I felt for my poor citizens, the event was not classified as significant. Despite how the fog was so thick that it was like you were blind... Apparently, that's insignificant. Back when I was coughing and wheezing and hacking along with my people, I felt it was significant. But it was nothing but a minor blemish on my otherwise disruptive history.

I still think of those twelve thousand people who died because of another one of _my_ mistakes.

I'm sorry I let you down.

**O-o-O-o-O**

xii. _2005._

Yet another reason to abhor that ever-dreaded seventh of July. The London bombings, otherwise referred to as 7/7. An unjust series of-of _suicide attacks_ conducted by my own _British_ people _on_ British people. Three trains. Three trains were blown up. Seven hundred people injured, fifty six dead. People overlook it. Yes, America's 9/11 incident was far more catastrophic. I can admit that. It doesn't make it any less upsetting.

But I should get used to it. People killing people. It happens all the time.

What's a few blemishes on my history?

**O-o-O-o-O**

_Present day._

"Hey, England?"

My emerald eyes darted up from my book to glance at the younger man across the room, and then back down at the book before he could see me looking at him. "Yes, America?" I replied calmly.

There was a pregnant silence and I could see America struggling to find his words. I remained quiet in response, not knowing how to offer assistance and hoping my silence would finally provoke him into blurting out whatever it was he wanted to say.

"I realised," he finally said, and I tried my hardest not to look at him. "I don't know much about you."

I looked up at this, surprised, before looking down and turning a page. I should at least _pretend_ to read. "Of course you do," I mumbled moodily. "You know I'm old, I was once a pirate and tormented Spain, I hate France, I love roses and, according to you, I suck when it comes to culinary skills." I sniffed in annoyance.

"You _do_ suck," he retorted with a smirk before sighing again. He stood suddenly and walked over to me, sitting _right next to me_. I tried to brush off how my heartbeat seemed to go faster, and how my face heated up. "And yeah, sure I know stuff like that," he replied, making a sour face which I had to try not to laugh at. "But... you're old," he said, smiling sheepishly at my _I knew it_ glare. "No offence."

"Of course not."

"I just mean... You'd been through a lot before I even _existed_... and I don't know anything about that time." His brows furrowed. "I feel... inferior or something."

I sucked in a sharp breath and looked down, letting my fringe cover my eyes. I placed my book on the tea table before me, and then continued staring at my scarred hands (that were now smaller than America's). "Don't say that," I reprimanded quietly.

"What?" America asked, confused. "Say what?"

"You, of all people, are anything _but _inferior. You're... You're successful, selfless, and - dare I say it? - the definition of a hero... You, America, are not inferior to anyone." Why were my eyes burning?

"Eh?" he asked, still evidently befuddled. "Okay, Iggy... What's up?" He placed one of his large hands over my smaller one, and I clenched my fists. _"You used to be so big..."_ "You wouldn't say that nice stuff about me voluntarily. What's wrong?" He uncurled my fist and intertwined our hands. "Iggy," he said again, and when I didn't look up, he grasped my chin and forced me to do so. "England." He frowned worriedly. "What's wrong?"

I stared at him for a long time. _What's wrong? Everything reminds me of historic events. You remind me of all of the harships I've faced. I feel guilty every time I'm with you because I just don't _deserve_ you._ "I..." I pursed my lips, cursing myself for letting my breath hitch. Choosing the lesser of two evils, I pitched forward and pretty much _clung_ to America, hoping my thought, _Please, don't ask me this. Not yet. Not now. I'm too scared to tell you these things_, transferred through my actions.

He let out a quiet breath, and wound his arms tightly around me, and leant down to kiss my head.

"I understand, Arthur."

**O-o-O-o-O**

_**Axis Powers Hetalia**_** belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

That. Took. So long. My back aches, because I'm just that old. Urghhh. Ow ow owww. Enough of my complaining. After hurrying through my maths homework, I immediately started on this again. (In total, it took me about twelve hours to write. I'd started it last night.) It took longer than most of my stories because I had to research these events. I was going to do the Opium Wars as well, but after continuously fucking up the format and with this headache that _**WON'T GO AWAY**_**, I thought, **_**Fuck it.**_** I might add it sometime, I dunno. Or write it in a separate fic dedicated to China? I dunno, because I'm planning on doing this sort of thing for Japan too. Yeah, I am masochistic.**

Now, I'm off for some pain killers. Adios.

BY THE WAY: Yes, this may have some inaccurate parts to it. I DO NOT take history and I am NOT super intelligent and know lots of things about history, so please don't write stuff like, '_**You totally suck. Didn't you know [BLAH] happened when [BLAH BLAH BLAH]? You are like soooo dumb!**_**' because... well, it just isn't nice... and if I'm in a bad mood, I'll report you.**

...Naaah, that's an empty threat. I don't report people unless it EXTREME because I'm a lazy fucker.

I'm swearing too much.

AND ABUSING CAPS LOCK BECAUSE I JUST REMEMBERED! I'm having an English oral exam next week, and it's a role play. Basically, a copper comes to investigate workers on the ranch from the novel _**Of Mice and Men**_** by Steinbeck. I get to play George. :) My first line is, "Jes' let the man si'down, goddammit." I came up with it because in the first scene, the cop doesn't let Crooks - the black stable buck (racism was still strong in the 30s) - sit down, and as I'm still agitated after shooting Lennie a while ago... well, I just snap at people. ;n; Hopefully, that'll go well... :)**

Have a good day! :)


End file.
